A New Lease of Life
by junejuly15
Summary: John is broken after Sherlock's suicide, but nineteen months after Sherlock's death John receives two cryptic texts summoning him to Cambridge ... Sequel to BEGINNINGS - Post-Reichenbach, Reunion fic - Final chapter: Afterthoughts ... A truly happy ending
1. Disruption

This is the first chapter of **A New Lease of Life**, the sequel to **Beginnings** ... I simply could not leave the boys behind in that misery, so here is my take on a post-Reichenbach reunion fic.

It certainly can be read as a standalone as well, but there are characters and events mentioned in the sequel that refer back to** Beginnings** which are not entirely self-explanatory…

Enjoy reading!

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**A New Lease of Life **

**Disruption**

John was content, fairly happy even when he looked around and took in the lovely summer evening. He filled his lungs with the balmy and fragrant air of a late August Sunday afternoon which proved to be nothing less than glorious.

Reclined in a sun lounger, gazing over the lush green meadows stretching out to the horizon and an ice cold drink in his hand, John felt lazy and comfortable. The only noticeable motion was that of the beads of moisture slowly running down his glass, only stopping momentarily at the barrier of his fingers before another one would join its predecessors and their combined impact would finally push them over John's fingers.

John leaned back more comfortably into the soft cushions padding the lounger and squinted lazily into the slowly fading sunlight.

'I must say you look rather smug, my friend!'

'Do I, Steven? I'm sure that's nothing but a trick of the light!'

'Nah! ... Definitely smug!' Steven smirked and set down the bag of barbecue coal with an exaggerated grunt. 'It's okay, John. You just relax and let me do all the work. You're our guest after all!'

'Right – Exactly what I thought,' John grinned.

Steven's wife Emily gingerly walked down the two stone steps from the kitchen to the patio, balancing a tray laden with salad and bread and plates in her hands. Steven glanced up and rushed over to help her, 'Don't carry that, darling. You know you shouldn't! Why didn't you call me?'

'Stop being such a busybody, muffin,' she said and John raised an eyebrow when he heard the terms of endearment flying between them. He half-turned and looked up at Emily who was pregnant with her third child. John made to rise from his lounger to help her.

'No, no, no, John!' she was quick to decline any offer of help, 'You just stay there and relax. I won't have any guest of mine do any household chores. You sit there and watch us work!'

'Let me at least lay the table or help Steven with the fire, Em,' John pleaded, but he knew it was futile, Emily would be true to her word and not let him lift a finger.

'No, I said! You are not to do anything. Steven and I are managing just fine!'

She patted John's shoulders when she passed and flashed him an open smile. John nodded and smiled back at her, he didn't mind, oh no - he didn't mind at all.

He leaned back again and watched his friends buzzing about, preparing their dinner. He was glad for Steven and Emily's company and, surprisingly, he was even glad to be told what to do or rather not to do for once.

His friends had invited him to spend this long summer bank holiday with them in their house in the country near Northampton. He had gladly accepted as there wasn't much social interaction in his daily life, not many people to talk to about his personal matters, or better still, _not_ talk, but sit in companiable silence without having to explain a thing. If he was honest with himself he had to admit he was lonely.

Apart from sparse interaction with his colleagues at work, the often tedious dealings with patients or the occasional night out with Mike or Greg there wasn't much that could be called a social life. And most certainly there wasn't anything that could be even remotely called a love life.

Since Sherlock's suicide the thought of venturing into that direction had been downright frightening and had never really entered his mind. Hell, he wasn't even sure what to _do_ anymore, he had been _off the market_ for so long. And nineteen months since Sherlock's death was not nearly enough time to have come to terms with this loss.

He grimaced when a sudden stab of pain shot through his heart and he averted his eyes to blink away a few tears which were threatening to spill over. Emily, who had watched him, closed the gap between them and pecked him lightly on the cheek, 'It's all right, John.'

John took hold of her hand and squeezed it reassuringly. He nodded at her, then placed his glass on the warm stones of the paved floor and hoisted himself out of the lounger. 'Steven, let me at least show you how to light a proper fire. You know you're lost without my help!'

John casually strolled over to Steven who after a few seconds of hesitation finally relented and handed him the poker. He exchanged a look with his wife who smiled and shrugged before he went indoors to fetch the steaks and left John to attend to the fire.

x

'I can't believe it, John! You're not serious, are you? You never ate _that_ ... Or did you?'

'I swear to God I did, Em! In Afghanistan we tried all kind of local specialities and that was one of it! Ask Steven!'

'That's gross, John,' Steven's ten-year-old son Sean piped up, but his beaming face defied his words and expressed his unbound admiration for John. Sophie, his eight-year-old sister nudged her brother under the table and giggled.

John winked at Sophie and amiably ruffled Sean's red curls. He really liked Steven's children, nothing much better to forget all and everything than to play with children, John had found out in the last two days. Amused, he watched Sophie's never-ending fight with the monster called silly giggle and how Sean tried very hard to suppress his own urge to laugh, desperately trying to appear cool and more adult - after all he wasn't a _baby_ any more, not like his little sis.

'I hope I am not too late?' A low voice suddenly boomed, amusement and self-confidence apparent in those few words. John turned around to see where the voice had come from and noticed a man standing in the open kitchen door. He was tall and blond, with a friendly and open face. John didn't recognise him and turned back to the table, but Emily got up to greet the new arrival.

'No, Martin, not at all. We all know how very busy you are! How lovely of you to come!' She soundly kissed him on both cheeks and took him by the hand to lead him over to the table.

'Dr Martin Hardy, one of our local GPs. Steven's colleague and friend,' she introduced him to John, 'Dr John Watson, GP in London. Old family friend.'

John and Martin shook hands and Steven rushed to fetch another chair from the shed and a plate and cutlery from the kitchen. 'You don't mind, John, do you?' he asked and seated Martin right next to John. After a bit of sliding and shifting everybody had found a place and they resumed eating.

x

After dinner the children went into the garden and played with the football John had brought them as a present. The adults leaned back and praised the lovely cook, Steven served after-dinner drinks for the three men and herbal tea for Emily and conversation flowed effortlessly. Emily divulged some saucy details about their summer holiday in France and Steven entertained them with a funny story about his follies on a French peasant market. Martin proved to be a witty conversationalist and burdened his share of the after-dinner talk easily.

A lull in the conversation eventually presented Steven and Emily with the opportunity to clear the table. They disappeared with a tray full of dirty dishes into the kitchen and left John and Martin alone on the patio.

John leaned back in his chair and took a sip of his drink. He found he could easily talk to Martin, and so he told him about his work as a GP in London. John soon noticed that Martin concentrated entirely on the person he was talking to, nodding in all the right places and making consoling noises whenever he deemed them appropriate. He was carefully mirroring John's emotions and took care to ask exactly the right questions to keep the conversation going. Martin was a rather perfect person to talk to, but instead of putting John at ease it was disconcerting and quite frankly getting on his nerves after a while.

John was used to Sherlock's erratic ways, his musing and lingering silences counterbalanced by bouts of talkativeness. Sherlock had the ability to concentrate entirely on the person he was interacting with, fixing his piercing eyes on them when he was interested and when they held him captivated. But this concentration came truly from his heart or his mind, whatever was interested first.

Martin on the other hand merely seemed to employ crude see-through conversation skills he must have learned in a summer psychology course, John thought derisively. He felt his skin starting to tingle with irritation and impatience and shifted in his seat to hide his restlessness. John was relieved when Steven and Emily finally came back from the kitchen, laughing about some private joke, and sat down with them again.

John made sure to keep smiling politely at Martin, who was telling him some infinite story about a patient, but his thoughts wandered back to Sherlock, then on to the shopping that needed to be done for the coming week, followed by the rather difficult case of an elderly bed-ridden patient, and inevitably, always and without fail back to Sherlock.

When John's glance fell on Martin's face he noticed that he was beaming at him expectantly and John became startlingly aware that he must have been asked a question.

'Sorry? What was it you asked?'

'I asked what you do in London when you are not working?'

John squirmed at bit in his seat and quickly glanced at Steven who nodded at him encouragingly. John frowned in Steven's direction as an answer and made a mental note to have a quiet little chat with his dear old friend later.

He cleared his throat, 'Ah – you know, Martin. I like to keep myself to myself at the moment. Not much of a social creature, I'm afraid.'

'That's not what _I_ heard!' Martin said with a wink and in a teasing singing voice which made him distinctly repellent in John's eyes.

'What _did_ you hear?' John asked reluctantly and glanced at Steven again. He became aware that the table had fallen silent and everybody was listening.

'Well, Steven here told me that you are quite a friend of raunchy pub nights and you like your entertainment noisy ...' John was positively glaring now in Steven's direction who only shrugged innocently.

Martin chatted on, oblivious to John's apparent discomfort, '_And_ you are quite famous for running around London and chasing criminals, bringing back lost master pieces and the like. You were working with the great detective Sherlock Holmes, right? Didn't he turn out to be a fraud? A fake genius? And didn't he jump off a ...'

John got up abruptly, scraping his chair over the stone floor, 'I don't want to ...' he said, but then he hesitated. When he went on he was carefully avoiding Martin's eyes, 'You have no right to ...' but he broke off again, 'Excuse me.' John left the table and quickly walked away from them and into the garden, he wanted nothing more than to be alone right now.

Emily made to get up, but Steven held her back, 'Leave him alone, darling.' He turned to Martin who looked quite abashed, 'I'm sorry, Martin. I think I misjudged the situation. I think you better leave now.'

'Right ... Don't worry, Steven. I understand,' Martin got up and turned to Emily, 'Emily, thank you for having me. And please do tell John I'm sorry.' He kissed her goodbye and despite the awkward situation waved a cheerful and confident goodbye to Steven and the children who were still playing noisily on the lawn.

Emily glanced at her husband, but he only shook his head and sat down on his chair again, 'Give him a moment, darling. I'll talk to him later.' Emily nodded and smiled at him. Yelling and whoops of joy drifted over from the lawn and she looked at her children who were still playing football. She glanced at her watch and called over to Sean and Sophie, 'Bedtime, you two!'

They looked up, their faces shining with joy and from the exertion, and only reluctantly came running to her.

'Mum, only ten minutes, please Mum!'

'No! No ten minutes. It's past nine already. You both can read in bed a while, but that's it!'

Emily adopted a stern look and ushered her reluctant and grumbling children inside, leaving Steven alone on the patio. He got up to clear the rest of the glasses and plates away and then followed John into the garden. He eventually found him down by the vegetable patch, sitting on a stone bench.

'John, there you are. Thought I'd find you hiding next to the sprouts.' Steven sat down beside his friend and glanced at him sideways in the failing light of this August evening, 'Are you okay?'

'Aye – I'm all right. It was just ...' John quickly wiped a hand over his eyes to hide some treacherous tears that still clung to his lashes. 'I don't want to talk about Sherlock with strangers. He has no right to talk about him in that casual way. It's not decent ...' he said softly.

'Decent? What do you mean, John?'

'I don't want anybody to soil my memories of him. I had to fight the urge to hate him because he left me alone without any explanation. It was so hard to fight back this feeling of being deserted and apparently unworthy to share problems with ... And then this ... this Martin ... this _stranger_ just talks about him like that ... but you see, I have to protect him because I need him ... still ... I need him, Steven.' John's voice broke and he buried his head in his hands.

Steven winced when he recognised the raw emotion behind those words and patted John's arm soothingly. He knew all about John's ambivalent feelings, he had told him about his grief, his agony and the difficulty to accept Sherlock's decision to kill himself and let people believe that he was a fraud.

Steven had never been taken in by those lies published in the gutter papers, knowing Sherlock and more importantly knowing John it was really impossible to. And he had proven to be a steady and loyal friend for John in all the time since Sherlock's death. _How long ago was it? More than one, but less than two years_ ... Steven wasn't sure, but recently he had wanted to believe that John had left this state of raw grief behind and might be ready to move on.

'I thought you might like Martin. And it seemed that you were getting on fine. I thought you might ...'

John's head shot up and he snatched away his arm to break any contact between them. 'For God's sakes - You're not serious, Steven ... You can't be!' He was irritated and confused and felt his temper flaring when realisation eventually dawned on him what had been Steven's hidden agenda.

'You invited that man for _me_?' he was incredulous and stared at Steven, 'How dare you? What makes you think I was even remotely interested in a new ...' He felt the urge to move, so he got up and walked a few steps away from Steven, trying to reign in his anger. John was inwardly fuming- _How could he even think ...? How patronizing, how condescending of him! - _

When felt ready to turn around and face his friend again he took the effort to school his face in a less furious expression. He had to make it clear to him though, once and for all.

'Steven, I appreciate your concern, I really do. But – _Jesus_ - Don't do that! Never ever play the matchmaker for me again!' He stood in front of Steven, looming over his taller friend for once. Steven glanced up at him, surprised, but abashed nonetheless and nodded.

'I'm sorry, John. I wasn't thinking. Won't happen again.'

A blush crept up Steven's neck and ashamed he examined his hands and glanced aside, studying the rather sad salad plants in desperate need of water, all the while buying some time to digest John's anger and to overcome the awkwardness of the situation. When neither of them spoke and the silence between them grew more and more profound he became desperate to chase away the heaviness of the moment and to return to their usual lighthearted banter. He glanced up at John whose face bore a serious and faraway expression.

A thought flashed across his mind and although he was certain John wouldn't like it, he really couldn't refrain from asking, 'Just one last thing, John.' Despite the tense mood he found it amusing and even had to fight to suppress a grin, 'Would Martin have been your type at all?'

For a split-second John looked as if he was going to punch Steven, but then he dipped his chin and made a visible effort to relax. His eyes fixed some point in the distance and he noisily exhaled, trying to calm down. After a moment he was ready to answer this nosy enquiry, a faint trace of amusement undisputable in his voice, 'Nope – not at all.'

He sat down next to Steven again and when he spoke his voice was serious and insistent, 'My type was unique, Steven. Once in a lifetime - Never to be repeated.'

Steven nodded, of course he understood, he really did. Honestly, what had he been thinking? He was actually more than a bit embarrassed by the whole episode. Thankfully John had accepted his apology and they could forget this lementable and ludicrous idea, maybe even pretend it never happened. Elated he clapped a hand on John's shoulder in his usual unpretentious manner.

'Let's go back, shall we?' Steven got up and looked down on his friend, 'Care for a nightcap, John?'

'Oh God, yes!'

x

It was late when John finally crawled up the stairs and into the guest room. He carelessly undressed, almost stumbling over his own feet. He was a bit tipsy, quite a bit actually, he had to admit. Steven had served them several stiff Gin and Tonics and now he had to pay the price.

He hastily filled a glass of water from the jug on the night table and gulped it down. _Always counterbalance alcohol with a lot of water – or something like that or other or_ ... John giggled, followed by a heartfelt burp which made him giggle even more. Puzzled he noticed the already empty glass in his hand and poured another glass for good measure.

In his state he wisely decided against a longish bedtime routine in the bathroom and brushed his teeth only perfunctorily before he slumped down on the soft bed on top of the covers in his boxers and t-shirt. He remembered to place his phone on the night table next to his watch, switched off the lamp and closed his eyes – the events of the last two days rapidly and pleasantly coursing through his drowsy mind.

He was almost asleep when the text alert startled him fully awake. Stifling a colourful curse he groped for his phone in the relative darkness. He blinked a few times to clear his vision and opened the text.

_Cambridge – Pub - 15/7/99 _

John blinked and read the text again. It meant nothing to him. He frowned and tried to piece together the meaning of the text, but his alcohol-dowsed mind couldn't grasp it – it was almost there, but it eluded him – again and again. Befuddled he put the phone down next to him on the bed when the alert went again. Frankly irritated now he snatched it and opened the new text.

_Tomorrow - 8_

What was that? Someone playing a trick on him? The text was not signed and he didn't recognize the number. What was this about? It could only be a joke. What should he be doing in Cambridge? Why go there at all? He didn't know anybody who lived there, no friends, no family, no ...

John sat up bolt upright and quickly swung his feet down from the bed onto the cool wooden floor and got up. He felt sobered all of a sudden and his eyelids nervously fluttered. His whole body was screaming for movement as if standing still would chase away the fleeting thought that was flittering inside his head ready to be grasped. Anxiously he started pacing the room.

_Cambridge? Pub? A date?_

He grabbed the phone and scrolled back to the first message. _15/7/99_ ... 15 July 1999 – Yes, that's what it meant.

_This date? ... This date!_

He stopped in his tracks and stood still.

_Sherlock!_

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**A/N **

Please tell me what you think! Feedback is always very much appreciated ;-D

JJ


	2. Waiting

**Two texts - from Sherlock? How on earth is that possible? John is utterly confused and doesn't know what to believe anymore … and Sherlock is waiting nervously for John to show up in the pub in Cambridge …**

* * *

**Waiting**

John stared at the phone in his hand – _Sherlock?_ - He scoffed - _Are you mad, John Watson? Are you completely out of your mind? - Sherlock? For fuck's sake, you must have gone crazy!_

He stumbled back to his bed and slumped down on it, his eyes never leaving the display of his phone - he was waiting for another text, one that would clarify that it had been a prank, a cruel play with his feelings. When no message followed its predecessors John carelessly threw the phone on the bed with a stifled curse and got up to go to the bathroom.

When he came back he couldn't help himself and checked the phone again, but there was no new message. Strangely, nagging disappointment outweighed his irritation.

_Sherlock is dead, you fool! You saw him on that pavement, blood pooling underneath him. He is dead, nobody could survive such a fall ... And why would anybody fake ...?_

John snorted mirthlessly and shook his head, exasperated that he gave this mad line of thought room at all. He frankly had no intention whatsoever to enter this realm of surreal and irrational conspiracy theories. _Stop it!_ He admonished himself. _Stop it!_ _SHERLOCK IS DEAD_!

Whoever had sent those messages must be very cruel indeed. It was inconceivable to John why anybody would tease somebody else in such a nefarious way. With an air of finality he shoved his phone into the side pocket of his brown leather holdall and crawled back into bed.

A cool draught made John shiver and he pulled the thin cotton sheets up to his chin to shelter from the cold of the night that was seeping through the open windows.

Sherlock _was_ dead, and John was determined not to let any fake or tenuous hopes enter his heart and mind. There was no way it could have been him who had sent those texts and it was no use to believe anything different. To nourish such hopes, however slim, would allow the poison of false expectations seep slowly into his heart and gradually destroy him all over again.

No, he wouldn't give in to this, wouldn't allow it. He was absolutely determined not to fall for this obvious prank and he tried to erase all those irrational, ludicrous and quite frankly sick thoughts from his mind.

John tossed and turned in his bed for a while, he was uncomfortable, sobered and wide awake now. Exasperated he finally turned on his back and placed both hands lightly on his belly, finding some reassurance in the warmth of his skin. He tried to take deep breaths, establishing a steady rhythm to help the restlessness which had taken hold of him drain away and to find enough peace of mind to go back to sleep. The stubbornly lingering disquiet felt like ants under his skin and made him wiggle in an effort to find a more comfortable sleeping position.

Once he had found one that seemed pleasant and comfortable, quite a feat in this rather spartan single bed, he lay still and unmoving and stared at the ceiling where the shadows of a huge chestnut tree were dancing a slow and silent waltz. The leaves, swaying softly in the wind, accompanied this dance with a melodious low rushing and swooshing.

Entranced John watched those graceful shadowy movements and listened to nature's whispers. It calmed down his heartbeat greatly and gradually lulled him into a light and dreamless sleep.

x

On Monday morning John said goodbye to Steven, Emily and their children after a late and copious breakfast. If Steven had noticed that there was something amiss with John, he certainly would put it down to the unfortunate encounter with Martin. John kept quiet about the mysterious texts and tried to be his usual, albeit slightly subdued self. And the bright light of this glorious and sunny August day did its best to chase away any lingering reminder of last night's sombre thoughts and irrational hopes.

A lot of kisses, well-meant advice and the promise to meet again soon later John manoeuvred his small rental car out of their gravel driveway, cheerfully waving goodbye to his friends. John had decided to drive back to London on less frequented country roads in an attempt to take a slow dive back into the buzz of London life. It was still fairly early in the day so he was sure to avoid the evening rush of everybody getting back after this long bank holiday weekend.

Cambridge and all its implications firmly pushed to the back of his mind he had determinately set the satnav in his rental car for Baker Street before leaving. Now he was driving south at a moderate speed, occasionally glancing outside at the passing countryside and whistling tunelessly to some inane pop song on Radio One.

He was content, simply because the weekend had been a welcome change to his daily routine, but the closer he came to London the more he began to dread coming home to his usual loneliness and gloom. He moved his shoulders a bit to loosen his muscles, they tended to cramp painfully when he sat behind the wheel, especially his left one. John flinched when the stiff muscles dared to withstand his efforts -

_If Sherlock were here, he certainly would ..._

_Maybe I should make the detour to Cambridge after all ...? _

_What if ...?_

John blinked, he was surprised - these daring thoughts had crept up on him entirely unbidden and now they sat there like the intruders they were, unwilling to budge, impatient, waiting for him to decide.

But decide he couldn't. Because he was utterly and profoundly confused - On the one hand he didn't believe for one second that the messages were even a remote indicator of Sherlock being alive. He couldn't believe that, could he? What would that mean? It would mean that Sherlock had been out there, all the bloody time, knowing full well that John was suffering like a dog, but not caring, not coming back to him. And John couldn't envisage such cruelty in Sherlock, no, it was impossible.

On the other hand there was a part of him desperately clinging to that tiny irrational sliver of hope that had presented itself in the guise of those two texts he had received last night. Should he really ignore that? Could he?

_Oh bloody hell_!

John groaned in frustration, it was hellish to decide when he didn't even know for sure what was at stake. All those thoughts and what-ifs were racing through his mind, occupying him, tormenting him, demanding an answer.

But then again ... after driving a while and using the time to think, to contemplate, to muse and weigh the pros and cons - John somehow was fairly sure that it would be pure madness to give in to this impulse to drive to Cambridge and wait in the pub. Although the texts had been cryptic, he presumed he was supposed to come to the very pub they had first met on that night in July 1999 -

_But ...why go when it would be_ _most likely in vain? No, most definitely in vain. Sherlock is ..._ –

John's heart clenched, a pain that he sadly had gotten used to, when his thoughts wandered back to Sherlock and to that first night in Cambridge and when he saw his young, beautiful face in his mind's eye. He screwed his eyes shut for a second to chase that image away.

_No!_ - It was bloody impossible and only a lunatic would fall for such a scam. He wouldn't go, wouldn't give in. He didn't know if he could take another blow, his grief was still raw, he was still weak, yesterday's encounter with Martin was living proof to that. There was no way he could take such a disappointment.

But then again – _what if_? What if it really had been Sherlock?

x

John paused for a sandwich and a cup of tea somewhere north of Luton. Not that he was hungry or in need of a break, and neither would have been really necessary as he would be home in one or two hours anyway, but subconsciously he knew that this was the very last opportunity to decide whether to act on those messages or not.

When John had finished his quick and disappointing lunch, he got back into the car. His head felt empty and full to the bursting point at the same time, fears and wild theories, dreams and hopes milling around like a whole army of annoying insects. Instead of starting the motor he let his head fall on the steering wheel and growled in frustration.

He remained like that for a few minutes, trying to coerce his head into some kind of order, to collect his thoughts - and thankfully, _thankfully_ it was enough to finally reach a decision.

Sighing he straightened his back, started the engine and commenced the last leg of his journey.

x

Sherlock sat with his back to the main entrance of the pub. He had chosen that spot with care as it offered him the opportunity to observe the door unobtrusively through an old-fashioned and partially blind wall mirror without being conspicuous himself. There really was no need for such precautions anymore, he was a free man now, an innocent man, his reputation soon to be restored. Nobody was taking much notice of him anyway and even if they did, it wouldn't matter.

Choosing this spot carefully was part of what had become Sherlock's second nature during the last nineteen months. It was safe to say that over that awful time he had turned into an expert in dissembling and hiding and experience had taught him to be meticulously careful.

Nineteen months! The time it had taken to hunt down Moriarty's criminal web, to gather all the necessary evidence of his innocence, proof of the cruel game Moriarty had played with him. Everything was filed away in his head and for good measure on a memory stick that was on his way to Mycroft and his minions.

Life was worth living again! - And yesterday he had finally plucked up enough courage to contact John, his fingers trembling with every letter he had typed. Cryptic messages, but he was sure that John would understand. He wasn't sure at all, though, whether he would come.

It was a quarter to eight and Sherlock had been nursing a pint of warm lager, the inconspicuous drink of everyman, for the last half hour. A packet of salt and vinegar crisps lay unopened beside it on the table. His fingers trembled with anticipation when he nervously fumbled a cigarette out of his half-empty packet and lit it, he needed something to hold on to, something to calm his fluttering nerves. Sherlock took a deep drag, blissfully closing his eyes when the nicotine shot hit him, and let the blueish smoke slowly billow out of the corner of his mouth and his nose.

Ever so often he unobtrusively checked the mirror, keeping an eye on the door and everybody who entered the dim room. When he glanced around the pub more openly he noticed a plump blonde sitting at the bar and giving him a rather open come-hither stare before she took a sip of her colourful drink and ran her tongue lasciviously along the rim of her glass. He quickly averted his eyes and busied himself with his cigarette.

The pub owner who had been absent for a while came back from the rear room and sharply called over to Sherlock, 'No smoking, laddie! Have you lived on the moon? Absolutely _no_ smoking in public areas!'

'Sorry! Wasn't thinking…' Sherlock stubbed out the cigarette in the lid of his cigarette packet for the lack of a better receptacle, careful not to set the whole blasted thing on fire. He noticed the complete absence of ashtrays on all tables only now and winced inwardly -

_Where's your famous power of observation? It's not as if I'd been gone for a decade – For God's sakes I know that smoking is banned in pubs, stupid ... stupid. You have to be more careful... – _

He was so preoccupied with mentally whipping himself for this lack of intelligence that he only noticed the blonde when she practically sat down on his lap.

'Hello, gorgeous!' she purred and slipped a hand up his thigh. Sherlock caught her hand in a steely grip and forced it away from his leg.

'Not interested! Get lost!' he hissed into her face, steel underlying menace. The blonde, who was more than a little inebriated, recoiled and blinked.

'Don't get your ... knickers in a ... a ... twist, sweetie ...' she slurred, but the message was more than clear to her and she got up and stumbled back to the bar. Without missing a beat she turned her attention on a more receptive victim, glancing back at Sherlock, letting him know that someone else appreciated her affection.

Sherlock ignored her and nervously glanced at his watch, the only thing that connected him to his old life. It was almost eight and no sign of John yet. He placed both hands on either side of his beer glass and his fingers commenced incessantly tapping a steady, but lifeless rhythm on the well-scrubbed wooden table.

Time seemed to crawl, it was agonising, excruciating – Sherlock checked his watch again, five past eight now. The door opened once more and Sherlock looked up expectantly. Three men entered the pub noisily, and the last one, the short, blond one ...

But no ... it wasn't John - Sherlock let out a breath he hadn't been aware of holding and his shoulders sagged.

The doubts that had been unwanted, but steady companions of the last days were attacking him anew, becoming almost overpowering. Why should John come at all? John believed Sherlock dead – And Sherlock had been the one to make him believe that lie. The lie _he_ knew had been necessary to protect John, to save him. But John didn't know the background to this awful and frankly horrendous story and wasn't it inhuman and downright degrading to deceive the one you love in such a vile manner?

Sherlock hoped with all his heart that John would decipher the cryptic messages and would remember the place where they had first met. Explaining everything would be much easier when they would finally come face to face and Sherlock was determined to try his utmost to justify the horror which lay behind them – John's, who had been left alone and in the dark all the time - and Sherlock's, who had lived nineteen months of misery, loneliness and violence. John _must_ understand, he must_ make_ him understand!

Sherlock fiddled with the packet of crisps, twiddled with the lighter, took a sip of his warm beer, put it down and nervously fluttered his fingers over the rim of his glass. His knees were constantly jiggling up and down and his whole body seemed like a trembling leaf. He was restlessness personified.

Another glance at his watch – twenty past eight already. Sherlock looked up again, checked the entrance, glanced around lest he should have him missed him, he grew more and more anxious, and the realisation that John wouldn't probably show up at all began to become manifest and flooded him with despair.

John was a man of respect and he wouldn't be late on purpose, he wasn't one to play games with people in general or with his partner, his loved one, in particular, and most importantly he was a firm believer in honesty.

And _that_ was the crux of the matter, wasn't it? How could Sherlock be sure that John would still want him after all that? After all these lies, this unbelievable deception? Would he be able to forgive Sherlock faking his own death and knowingly throwing him into a dark abyss of grief and pain?

A sheen of sweat appeared on Sherlock's brow and he started kneading his fingers, he was absolutely craving a cigarette now and decided to go outside for a moment. He grabbed his packet of cigarettes and when he passed the bar he motioned to the bartender to indicate that he was just going for a smoke.

Outside the day was still blindingly bright and the hot August sun was glaring relentlessly. Sherlock grabbed his sunglasses which were dangling from the neckline of his t-shirt and put them on. He had never been one to enjoy bright sunlight and summer heat, being really an indoors creature he despised it with all his heart, always had.

Sherlock moved away from the door, avoiding all the people going in and out to get a drink. The pub had a nice little walled-in garden with wooden benches and tables which today was fairly overflowing with people, the unusually hot weather offering a perfect excuse for a pint or two in the balmy summer air.

Sherlock leaned against the trunk of an old elm tree spending enough cool shadow to make outdoors just about bearable for him. This vantage point offered him a perfect view of the entrance of the pub and the sunglasses a perfect disguise to take in his surroundings without openly staring.

He lit a cigarette and took a deep, greedy drag. He had taken to smoking again three months into the hiding, in desperate need of a consistency in his life. Sad and pathetic enough that it had to be a drug, but John would make him see the errors of his ways and make him quit, he was sure. A ghost of a smile lifted the corners of his mouth when he thought about John's stubbornness.

What would John do when he saw him - alive, breathing? Would he sharply inhale and dip his chin trying to stay in control, hiding his surprise? Would he touch him, maybe take his hand and gently move the pads of his thumbs over his fingers? Would he embrace him and bury his nose in the crook of his neck? Would he kiss him like he used to, alternating bites and nibbles with soft and tender kisses? What would he do? - And would John still be the same?

How Sherlock was longing for all those little things that had once made his life, how he was longing for John and his peculiarities. Trivial things like the way he kissed or the tiny smear of strawberry jam which inevitably stuck to the corners of his mouth when he enjoyed his beloved toast, his predilection for comfy jumpers, his love for cosy afternoon reads with a gripping novel and a cuppa. He missed him with all his heart, with his body - his entire being was yearning for his closeness, aching with the craving for his presence.

Sherlock flicked a tiny piece of tobacco from his lips with his little finger before he took another drag, watching all those happy and carefree people whirling around him. He was like the eye of the storm among that buzz, solitary and secluded. Suddenly his heart clenched painfully and he felt an enormous pang of regret for having missed almost two years of his life, of his life with John.

_John_ ...

Tears welled up in his eyes and he blinked, thankful again for the sunglasses which proved invaluable yet again. Nobody around him would have guessed that the tall, lanky man with the dark sunglasses and the steely mouth was very distressed indeed, and that one or maybe even two or three tears were making their way down from the corners of his eyes over his sharp cheekbones and onto the soft fabric of his t-shirt.

He leaned his head back against the trunk, trying to keep those blasted droplets where they belonged, and one last deep drag of the cigarette helped to steady his nerves and to quell all lingering mawkishness -

_No use, absolutely no use for that. Crying – sentiment ... won't help at all – _

He shook his head, dropped the cigarette butt on the ground to stub it out with the heel of his sneakers and pushed himself off the trunk of the old elm tree.

It was time.

Time to concede that John was not showing up in Cambridge tonight - Time to see that everything was very likely much more complicated than he had anticipated - Time for a change of plans.

Sherlock realised that it was finally time to go back to London and face his demons.

* * *

**A/N** Thank you for all your reviews, favs and alerts so far, my dears! You make me happy … Please keep it up! :-D

JJ


	3. Confrontation

**Confrontation – Sherlock and John meet again …**

* * *

Dr John Watson rushed along the corridor of Southend Surgery about to make a quick detour to the lab to collect the results of his next patient. Thus far the day had been fairly uneventful, routine cases interrupted by only one intriguing exception, an rare viral infection which John had found interesting enough to discuss with a colleague over a cold makeshift lunch in their staff room.

John glanced at his watch, half past five, thank God his shift was almost over - three more patients to go and then he could call it a day. Although - he wasn't entirely sure if a lonely, brooding evening at home would prove actually better than a busy, but distracting working day.

John snatched the relevant papers from his cubbyhole, hurried back to his consulting room and opened the door with a flourish. As usual he was entirely focused on the paperwork in his hands and didn't look up from the lab results of the patient. This said patient would be - if all went according to schedule - sitting in the chair in front of his desk. Out of the corners of his eyes he saw that this was indeed the case and he shortly wiggled two fingers in the approximate direction of the man to acknowledge his presence.

The results worried him, he had hoped for better ones, but James Wilkins was a strong man, they would struggle through this new setback together. He closed the door with a soft thud and walked over to his desk. Captivated by the patient's sky high blood sugar results, he slumped down on his leather chair rather inelegantly.

'Mr Wilkins, I am sorry to inform you that ...' John looked up, a professional half-smile plastered on his face, and fell abruptly silent. The smile slowly died on his face and all blood seemed to drain from his tanned features at once, leaving him a deathly white.

He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound would come out and Mr Wilkins' test results fluttered to the floor unnoticed. John closed his mouth and gulped.

'John,' a painfully familiar low voice said and John screwed his eyes shut only to open them wide the next second.

He stared at the man sitting in front of the desk, at the man he had seen maimed and drenched in blood on the pavement and whose death he had been mourning for so long now. He gaped at the man he had loved with all his heart and who was quite obviously _not_ dead, but alive and ...

'Sherl ...' John managed to whisper before his voice broke. His breath hitched in his throat and he helplessly covered his eyes with both hands. After a moment of shutting himself off from all ... _that_ ... he let his hands sink down to his lap again, they seemed suddenly weightless, his whole body boneless and weak.

He couldn't move, couldn't get up - but he wanted to _look_, he wanted to _see_ with his own eyes, so he let his gaze slowly slide over his hands, his desk, along the smooth white surface covered with papers, pens and his stethoscope until it finally came to rest on Sherlock's chest.

'Sherl ...' he tried again, slightly raising his gaze, but he couldn't say his name, couldn't look into his eyes, and so he dipped his chin and glued his eyes to Sherlock's chest which was covered by what was obviously a plain white t-shirt. He squinted and all he was able to say was a rather witless, 'You ... you look so different.'

'Yes,' Sherlock answered softly and John noticed Sherlock's gaze drop to his hands in his lap.

Aware that those bloody, disconcerting eyes were not boring into him for now, he dared to look up and study this ... this_ apparition_ in front of his desk. Sherlock had the decency to let him, he didn't lift his gaze, he didn't claim John's eyes, he was patiently biding his time.

At first glance Sherlock seemed to be a profoundly changed man indeed. He looked tired and beaten, more serious, yes, he even looked older. The set of his mouth was harder and sadly some of his sparkle seemed to be lost.

His hair was much shorter, the mass of curls all but gone. The shorter hair made his face look different, more pronounced somehow, more chiselled. The haircut was neat, full on top, the parting as usual on the left, short at the sides and back ... and the colour ... _God_, the colour was so different. Gone was the luscious black, replaced by a much lighter auburn.

Surprisingly this hue highlighted the pallor of his skin even more and the moles and freckles on his neck and cheeks stood out vividly. John could have traced every single one of them with his fingers even with his eyes closed and he stubbornly fought the urge to get up and gather him in his arms right now. Instead he nervously licked his lips and shifted in his seat.

He couldn't quite grasp why it was important for him to keep a distance, but at the moment it just was. The silence between them was eery and made John fix a point above Sherlock's head, somewhere on the white wall behind him, while his thoughts briefly flickered back to the last days which had been a constant and agonising maelstrom of emotions, ever since he had received those bloody texts.

John briefly shook his head in an attempt to chase those thoughts away and to pull himself together. He slowly let his eyes trail back to Sherlock and concentrated on his face again –

_His face _… where sharp, prominent cheekbones dominated the angular features and were witness to the fact that Sherlock had obviously lost some weight. His face was gaunt to the point of emaciation and the skin looked fragile and almost translucent. Sadly the overall impression was one of malnourishment and weariness.

_Just how much weight did you lose, how skinny are you? - _

His face was an indicator of sorts, but John couldn't be sure about the rest of him as he was dressed in a white t-shirt and a navy-blue hoodie which covered his torso quite loosely and his legs were hidden by the desk.

John knew that he had cowardly reverted to looking at him with a doctor's eye now, he even went so far as to make a mental note to ask him about his weight later. He was very well aware of it and he realised it was avoidance behavior.

But he also knew that he couldn't shut himself off from the reality of this moment forever ... and so John took a deep breath and slowly guided his gaze back to Sherlock's face, carefully avoiding his eyes for a moment or two longer. When he had finally plucked up enough courage to look, Sherlock lifted his gaze as well and brazenly stared straight into John's eyes.

John gasped and his heart skipped a beat, 'Sherlock ...' he whispered.

His eyes, _his eyes_ ... it was so ... so _frightening_ to see those eyes again. Their feline slant and their colour, which was constantly oscillating between light grey and blue, occasionally changing to green depending on the light and Sherlock's mood. The intense gaze of those eyes had been haunting him for the last nineteen months and now they were staring right into his heart and soul again, effortlessly stripping him bare.

Sherlock was deeply affected by John's confusion and got up from his chair in one fluid and graceful movement, startling John with the sudden motion. He walked over to him, only breaking eye contact when he knelt down next to John and slowly let his head sink on his thighs, wrapping his arms around his legs.

John inhaled sharply as if he had received a hard, dry punch to the gut when the reality of Sherlock's proximity, his body heat, his _life_ hit him with full force. He closed his eyes, fairly gulping down air and his heart was pounding madly only from the sensation of feeling him.

John opened his eyes again and dropped his gaze to the man kneeling next to him. After a second of hesitation he lifted his hand and gingerly touched Sherlock's hair.

'Ah –' he breathed and quickly snatched his fingers away as if he'd burned them, but they were drawn inevitably towards him again, he stood no chance, it was like a magnet attracting him. Gingerly he lowered his whole hand and weaved his fingers through what was left of Sherlock's curls, he mourned the loss of them, but his hair was as soft and silky as he remembered it.

He felt Sherlock's body tensing in response to his touch and this and the feeling of familiarity heartened John and he grew bolder and slowly lowered his head and buried his nose in Sherlock's hair, drinking in his scent which was different and alien and smoky and strange, but yet so familiar, so ...

'Sherlock - Sherlock ... look at me, please,' John pleaded and lifted his head to make room for Sherlock who looked up and boldly faced John.

They locked eyes and without warning Sherlock lunged forward and claimed John's lips, urgently, desperately and none too gently. John recoiled in surprise and instinctively pressed both hands against his chest to push him away, but Sherlock was not to be deterred and gripping John's wrists he pulled them both upright. Holding on to his wrists he invaded John's personal space recklessly, intimately. He pulled their bodies flush against each other and claimed John's lips once again, gentler this time, but possessive nonetheless.

They were both startled by the intensity of this almost forgotten intimacy and kept their eyes open as if this would ensure the other's presence, would explain and most importantly would keep the other where he was. The kiss was awkward, chaste and it didn't feel right somehow - and John broke away after a moment.

Sherlock let go of John's wrist and they stood in front of each other, as close as possible, panting and staring, neither knowing what to say. The longer the silence lingered between them the bolder disappointment, fear and anger took possession of what was supposed to be a life-changing, a happy moment. A sharp knock on the door startled them and the reality of this mundane noise shook them out of their dreamlike state.

'Yes?' John called, his voice composed and almost back to normal, but his eyes never leaving Sherlock's face, not daring to sever their fragile connection.

The door opened and Dr. Jameson looked in, 'John, Mr Wilkins is waiting for you. He has an appointment, remember? Are you quite finished here?'

'Right - just give me two minutes,' John answered and shortly focused on his colleague. This response seemed satisfactory enough because the door closed again.

'Two minutes? That's all we need or is that all you're prepared to give me?' Sherlock said, he managed to sound defeated and slightly aggressive at once. John shivered when he heard that velvety and unchanged voice properly for the first time, and he turned back to him and shook his head.

'No! - No, Sherlock, of course not.' John was surprised how much in control he was now, how easy it was to refrain from breaking down in this frankly surreal situation.

'Let's not talk here. There will be people coming in all the time and I still have a few patients waiting.' He tenderly traced a finger over Sherlock's cheekbone and he closed his eyes and leaned into John's touch. 'My shift will be finished in an hour or so. Why don't you go home ...' John halted, it was so strange, so unreal to be talking to Sherlock like that as if nothing had ever happened and to tell him to go home, his home - _their home_.

'Why don't you go home and wait for me? Everything is still ...' he cleared his throat because the impact of what he was actually saying hit him with all its force now. 'All your stuff is still there. Your clothes ... you can get changed, get comfortable and then we will talk.'

He hesitated and then added almost as an afterthought, 'And you must explain why ... why you chose to make such cruel fun of me.'

John couldn't help that this sounded bitter, hurt and angry although he was really overjoyed and elated and should be reduced to a trembling wreck because of the fact that Sherlock was standing here in front of him, alive and breathing.

He tilted his head to the side, attempting a faint smile, but failed miserably and as a kind of compensation he enveloped Sherlock's hand in his own and gently traced the pads of his thumbs over his pale skin. Despite the nagging anger and fury within him John felt he owed Sherlock this one gesture of reassurance before he would send him away.

Sherlock glanced down on their joined hands and relented, 'All right, John. I will go and wait for you ...' Sherlock grudgingly accepted the delay, accepted that now it was him who would have to wait, 'Please come ... _home_ ... as soon as you can.'

He smiled feebly and leaned down to kiss John's lips, but without thinking John turned his head so that Sherlock could only peck his cheek. Hurt flickered across Sherlock's face, he dropped his eyes and turned away from John to walk to the door.

John didn't know why he had reacted that way, it truly puzzled him, and his heart felt heavy and burdened by all the ambivalent emotions battling within. When Sherlock had almost reached the door, John stopped him in his tracks by saying softly, 'I'm over the moon, Sherlock ...over the moon that you are alive.'

Sherlock turned around, there was hesitation in the movement, but then he smiled lopsidedly, and John quickly closed the gap between them and wrapped his arms around his slender frame. When he let go he mirrored Sherlock's smile and this time it was so heartfelt and open that it gave both of them hope.

Hope that this day would bring resolution and happiness and maybe even a new beginning.

x

Sherlock used his own key to open the front door to 221B – His house keys had been constant companions and had travelled everywhere with him. Using them now felt like catapulting himself back nineteen months, it was almost like pretending he had never been away.

Once inside he took his time to take in the hall which was dark and quiet. Softly he closed the door and allowed a moment of absolute silence, his eyes following the dust motes which he had disturbed and which were dancing like the poor brothers of snowflakes in the beam of light falling through a window into the relative gloominesss of the hall.

The heavy silence which lay over the house indicated that Mrs Hudson was not at home and Sherlock was thankful for that, one reunion a day was ample, more than enough really. If he was honest with himself, he hadn't been overly keen for another one, had in fact started dreading it on his cab ride here.

Sherlock had to admit that his meeting with John had not at all gone as expected. Far from it, as nothing had been resolved, nothing explained and a kind of hollow feeling was taking residence inside his chest.

Sadly it seemed as if he had lost some of his ability to read John. He was quite confused by his behavior, he had read surprise and love on his face the one second and hurt and anger the next. All his actions and reactions had screamed confusion and ambivalence ... Sherlock shook his head - _Give him time – He ... we need time ... He has to adapt, to accept ... What did you expect?_

He forced himself to move on and walked along the length of the hall, a holdall containing the reminders of a lonely life in his hand. Eventually excitement got the better of him and he bounded up the stairs to their flat impatiently, his eyes scanning all the details, weeding the familiar from the new. He stepped into their living room and here the feeling that he had never been away was even more pronounced.

It certainly looked the way it had on that fateful evening when Lestrade had finally been taken in by Moriarty's game and had come to arrest him and to take him to the Yard. Together with John they had managed to escape then and after a night full of doubts and frantic searching for a solution Sherlock had decided to face Moriarty alone to solve _the final problem_.

Sherlock involuntarily shivered, he bit his lips and stubbornly thrust his chin forward when he thought back to that fateful moment on the rooftop of St. Bart's. His heartbeat elevated slightly, but this was a far cry from the panic that had been his constant companion during the first few months after the fall.

Now the memories of this horror were slowly fading, he had worked hard to leave them behind and he would only consciously return to this horrendous day one more time when he had to explain his motives to John. He was the only one who deserved to know the whole story, and telling him would finally bring closure.

Sherlock dropped his bag onto the living room floor and turned around to walk through the kitchen towards their bedroom. He smirked when he saw the order that now reigned in the once so cluttered kitchen, no experiments claiming all available surfaces, no Petri dishes producing new life forms.

To his amazement John had evidently not had the heart to range his microscope, it still took centre stage on the wooden kitchen table, gleaming and dust-free, and John seemed to have arranged his solitary life around it. There was a tea caddy and a half-full mug of cold tea, yesterday's newspaper lay crumpled next to it. A used plate with a butter-smeared knife waited to be cleaned in the sink and half a loaf of bread and a bread knife were lying amicably next to each other on the chopping board.

Sherlock spun on his heels, taking in the totality of the kitchen which was so familiar, so much like home that it hurt, a sharp burning sensation inside his chest like a red hot clamp around his heart. With John the hurt had been different, more of a constant dull ache in his heart and soul, taking possession of his entire being, a hurt he knew could only be remedied by John's touch and love.

Beyond all the sadness and worry that was unbalancing him, Sherlock found a certain weird pleasure in monitoring all his reactions connected to his homecoming. He found support in registering and filing them away according to their intensity. The intention behind all that soul-searching was to lock those emotions safely away with all the horrors of the last nineteen months, lock them securely and inaccessibly in a cold, stony room somewhere in the dusty basement of his mind palace. Lock them away for good.

Sherlock continued to the bedroom and gingerly placed his palm flat on the door and pushed. The door swung open with an often-heard creak. Inside everything seemed unchanged as well and his gaze was drawn to the bed - their bed - which was unmade. He sat down on the soft matress, timidly perching on the edge of it, and softly stroked over the sheets, smoothing out some creases with his long fingers. He bent down to one of the two pillows and sniffed the white cotton, greedily inhaling John's familiar scent. It was hard to resist the desire to wrap himself in John's sheets and just sleep off his exhaustion.

With a grunt he heaved himself off the bed, he really wanted to rest, but he needed to get out of those clothes first, so he walked over to their old mahogany wardrobe. He opened it and saw that John had indeed told him the truth, all his suits and shirts were still there, only a smattering of dust covering them.

When he fingered the fabric of one of his black suits something like an electrical current flowed through him and made him recoil. Surprised his lips curled into a smile - _What a reaction ... to a suit! - _But it was much more than that and he realised that his body had reacted to the fact that he had touched a part of his old life, of his old personality.

Sherlock swiftly pulled the suit jacket off the hanger, shrugged out of his well-worn blue hoodie, and slipped into it. He smiled because the jacket fit, it was a bit looser than before, but it still fit. His fingers caressed the richness of the smooth fabric, enjoying the sensation. Quickly he took off of his jeans and put the suit trousers on as well. It was like a transformation, yet another kind of homecoming - he felt more and more at home again, not only in this flat, but in his body too.

He grabbed one of his shirts, and rooted around in the drawers for fresh underwear. Everything still had its old place, even his sock index was undisturbed, and Sherlock's lips curled into another tiny smug smile. He grabbed his clothes and went to the bathroom to take a long and blissfully hot shower.

x

Dressed in a white shirt and black suit trousers Sherlock looked and felt more like himself when he pottered about the flat later - going through drawers, fingering all their books, reading old case notes. It was like a compulsion – the flat and all its contents loudly demanding to be acknowledged by him again. And he was more than happy to oblige, coming home little by little, step by step - Claiming his old life.

He had started by ranging the few things he had brought with him and which he wanted to keep, a few mementoes of his fight against Moriarty - a plane ticket, a lighter, a knife, some books which had been witnesses of long periods of waiting and boredom. All of his clothes had been discarded, though, there was nothing he particularly wanted to hold on to, nothing of that part of his personality he wanted to retain.

Eventually all had been ranged, everything had been acknowledged and Sherlock noticed that the daylight had started to fade and dusk was unfurling in the flat. He switched on some lights and glanced at his watch. It was past nine and John still hadn't come home yet.

Sherlock's heart clenched and he nervously checked the time again. He had no intention to control John, of course he wanted to give him space, but when anxiety became overwhelming he grabbed his phone and texted him –

_Where are you? I am waiting S_

The reply came a few minutes later -

_Coming J_

Sherlock sighed with relief, but this so casually announced _coming_ took quite some time to materialise and in the meantime he began to get more and more irritated and nervous. He wanted to be near John, after all those months of agonising solitude he was unwilling to wait any longer. No use to text him again, though, knowing John's stubbornness he would not get a more enlightening answer.

_Why doesn't John come home? Doesn't he want to see me?_

Sherlock steepled his fingers underneath his chin and restlessly paced the length of the living room – Of course he was aware of the bitter irony of the situation and grudgingly had to accept the pain it inflicted on him. A thought flashed across his mind all of a sudden and made him stand still for a moment -

_What if something happened to him? _

He scoffed_ … No, no! Don't start on that_ …

It was downright torture for him to be reduced to this _waiting_, a passive and highly unsettling act, but at twenty past ten Sherlock finally heard heavy footsteps on the stairs. He turned to the living room door, letting out another heartfelt sigh of relief.

John slowly ascended the last steps of the staircase and paused on the landing. He looked up and when he saw Sherlock through the open living room door his face lit up with a smile. He raised his hand and pointed with his index finger at him, nodding once, twice in an assertive manner. The motion made him sway a bit and he quickly leaned against the wall to steady himself. He lowered his chin and closed his eyes.

'John, where have you been? I was worried!' Sherlock said and he couldn't help that he sounded a bit like a sullen wife berating a wayward husband.

'Out!' John said, his speech was slightly slurred, 'Had to think … about …' he waved his hand in Sherlock's direction, 'You … and …' another wave vaguely indicating the flat and Sherlock and all his return might imply.

'You are drunk, John,' Sherlock observed in his usual lofty manner.

'That's good deduction … by the great … consulting detective,' John slowly and deliberately said and walked over to Sherlock, standing so close that their breaths mingled.

'And _you_! … You … are _not dead_!' John added, triumphantly playing his trump card.

'Obviously,' Sherlock drily conceded.

'_For fuck's sake!'_ John exploded_, '_It's not fucking _obvious_ to me! … You! – Are! - _Alive_! How is that possible? _HOW_?'

'Do you want me to explain?'

'What do you think, Sherlock? – Huh? _What_ do you think?' John hissed into his face, 'Use that brilliant brain of yours and make your deductions!'

Sherlock nodded, but he wasn't sure if now was really the best moment to explain and to lay down his motives and he decided to say so, 'John, I will explain everything to you and hopefully you will understand why I had no choice in the matter …'

'What do you mean _no choice_?' John rudely intercepted, his voice was much louder in his angry and drunken state, clearly he wasn't entirely himself. 'You're not seriously trying to tell tell me you were _forced_ to deceive me like that.'

Sherlock flinched when the venom underlying John's words hit him, 'John, please. Let's not talk it about it now. I will explain everything when you are sob … when you are less excited.'

He dared to touch him then and when John didn't shy away he gently cupped his face with his hands and forced him to look into his eyes. Sherlock dropped his voice, this was important, he needed John to agree, 'Let's go to sleep, John. I don't want to fight now. I just want to find some rest … with you.'

Sherlock's voice sounded insistent, but also so sad and resigned and defeated that all the fight and anger left John and his shoulders slumped. He let his head fall forward until it hit Sherlock's chest. He closed his eyes and after a moment said almost inaudibly , '_Jesus_ - Sherlock. You don't know what you are doing to me. This is _killing_ me ...'

He stood very still, but then he groped for Sherlock's hand and held on to it, feeling the softness of his skin and to intensify their connection even more he intertwined their fingers. Slowly he let his thumb slide over Sherlock's palm, the motion comforting and soothing for both of them.

'You're probably right, Sherlock ...' he whispered against his chest after a while, 'Let's not fight now ... let's find some rest.'

John exhaled, slowly, noisily, once and then a second time, calming down. The enormity of what had happened to him, to them suddenly hit him and instinctively he wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist and hugged him fiercely and almost violently. Sherlock instinctively closed his eyes and somehow relaxed, allowing himself to give in to the sensation of being held, of warmth and tenderness and need.

They stood together in the middle of their living room for a long time - embracing, finding comfort and solace in the presence of each other, unwilling to let go.

The last hours had shown both of them very clearly that finding back to their old ways and building a life together would be a long and difficult process.

And Sherlock realised that returning from the dead was a very intricate business indeed.

* * *

**A/N** Alas! The boys are moving towards happiness again … ;-D

Thank you for all your lovely feedback! Please keep it up! JJ


	4. Balance

**Balance**

Sherlock managed to sleep for three or maybe even four hours before he woke with a start. He didn't know what had woken him, and the room, only filled with diffuse greyish light and John's steady breathing, provided no answer.

Sherlock flipped onto his back, the position most likely to relax him the quickest. For a man as impatient as him speed and efficiency was always of utmost importance even when trying to find back to sleep. However all his relative patience proved futile which greatly irritated him - honestly, he would have taken any kind of slumber at that point, even a fitful and shallow variety. But none would come.

After staring at the ceiling for a good while, which was followed by a seemingly infinite study of the curtains and thereby the working out of the formula the designer had obviously applied to spread the geometrical pattern in such precision, he realised that sleep would continue to elude him – albeit the fact that he was exhausted to a point where this seemed physically impossible.

It was hard to accept that his body was betraying him once again and instead of calmly drifting back into sleep his whole body started to resound with a familiar tingling sensation as he was becoming more and more restless. From painful experience he knew that only getting up and finding something to distract his mind would help.

Sherlock was careful not to disturb John when he crawled out of the bed. Tiredly he padded barefoot into their kitchen and filled a glass of water from the tap. He leaned against the sink and gulped down the lukewarm water greedily. A few drops ran down his chin and he wiped them away with the back of his hand before he placed the empty glass in the sink.

Apart from the odd creaking sound of the old wooden floors the flat was very quiet, the house asleep. Sherlock had wondered why Mrs Hudson hadn't busily pattered up the few stairs to their flat at least once while he had been waiting for John last night and John had explained that she had gone to visit her sister in Guildford and would be away for a few days.

Sherlock glanced out of the window and saw that the day was already dawning, the greyish twilight now giving way to a more insistent luminescence. He turned back and let his eyes dart across the various surfaces of the kitchen, taking in the order, taking in the cosiness John had managed to establish in a simple way.

His eyes finally came to a rest on his microscope and he pondered on its various uses for a moment, weighing the joy of examining some specimens or catalogueing the various dust forms to be found in the flat against ... he hesitated, surprisingly this prospect held no allure for him at all. As there were no pressing experiments for a case to be conducted, nothing would capture his interest and would fill the early hours of this morning with actual _meaning_, and just for the sake of it ...?

No, his heart wasn't in it. Apart from that, no equipment, not one single slide, no Petri dishes, no test tubes were to be seen anywhere, John had left the microscope, but everything else was gone.

Standing alone in the kitchen, leaning against the hard sink, staring into the diminishing darkness of the flat, his bare feet on the cool lino, Sherlock suddenly knew quite well _what_ he was in need of now, what would calm him and his restlessness, and he grabbed one of the wooden kitchen chairs to drag it back with him to the bedroom.

With a bit of silent shuffling he positioned the chair next to the bed so that he could indulge in what would really give him some peace of mind – he would watch John sleeping. Before he sat down he opened the curtains to let the wakening daylight fall on the bed, allowing him to see John clearly and in detail.

Sherlock sat down on the chair, his torso slumping forward, his elbows resting on his thighs. He steepled his long fingers underneath his chin and set out to observe the sleeping John, eager to compare the new to the old, to defragment the new impressions and to file the fractions away alongside the myriads of already existing John-related data.

Fine lines surrounded John's closed eyes, laughter lines, worry lines, quite a few more than there had been and his fine sandy hair was falling into his forehead, stubbornly refusing to be ruled by a haircut. It was a bit longer than when ... he had ... last ... seen him ... and much more peppered ... with grey. Sherlock cleared his throat, something - _emotions_ - was threatening to overwhelm him and he closed his eyes for a moment.

When he opened his eyes again he fixed his gaze on the periodic table over their bed and the familiar numbers and letters anchored him safely in the here and now, enabling him to focus on John again. On John who never ceased to confuse, fascinate and amaze him.

Sherlock tilted his head to the side and smiled - right now John looked so peaceful, the way he was propped on his right side expressed calmness and restfulness, his face was turned to Sherlock and a ghost of a frown was knitting his brows now and then. His mouth was slightly open, his breathing steady and calm, an indicator of untroubled sleep, deep and sound. Sherlock leaned forward and even closer to John.

_One day I must tell you, John, how I hunted down Moriarty's criminal web. I must tell you that I saw and did horrendous things. I must tell you that I had to thieve, to lie and to hurt other people ... and that I ...  
_

_Who am I trying to fool? You know all that already, don't you? You saw it in my face, didn't you? You saw it in the set of my mouth – you saw it in my weariness. _

_After all that lies behind us it must surely sound ridiculous when I say that I'm sure I can't keep anything from you ... you will find out eventually. _

_You have every right to be angry and you have every right to know why I deceived you like that – why I had to keep you in the dark. I will tell you that Moriarty left me no choice – and that I had to risk letting you behind in despair or risk you hating and cursing me. _

_I don't know if you will understand why I had no choice ...  
_

'Why I had no choice ...' Sherlock mumbled and when John stirred he realized that he had spoken aloud. John's tiny unconscious movement in response to his voice touched him and he got up from his chair and bent down to John, his fingers hovering undecidedly over John's brow. He gingerly touched his forehead, ghosting his pale fingers over tanned skin. John didn't wake, but the corners of his mouth lifted and his lips undeniably curled into a tiny smile.

The corners of Sherlock's mouth curled upwards in response when he saw this unconscious reaction, to his touch this time, and he sat down on the mattress next to him. The resulting dipping of the mattress made John stir anew and he noisily turned away from Sherlock. He curled into himself, hugging the sheets close to his body.

Sherlock waited until John had settled down and breathed evenly again before he lowered his body onto the bed, carefully snuggling up close and spooning John's sleep-warm body. John's head fit perfectly underneath his chin, Sherlock's arm curved exactly around John's back and belly and Sherlock's long thighs pressed flush against the back of John's legs. It was a perfect fit, and he realized that missing it had been a part of his phantom pains in all the blasted nineteen months of his solitude.

Lying curled around John's body he felt his heartbeat calm down considerably. The tingling restlessness seeped away and his limbs were gradually flooded by a sleepy heaviness and drowsiness ... and Sherlock easily drifted back to sleep again.

x

John woke and blinked a few times to clear the morning haze from his eyes. Bright sunlight was streaming through the open curtains and it was very warm in the room and underneath the thin cotton sheets. It wasn't only the already palpable heat of this August day that was making him sweat though, there was another source of heat right next to him.

He glanced over his shoulder and saw an expanse of creamy skin, auburn hair and a peacefully heaving chest. John smiled and carefully extricated himself from Sherlock's arm which lay heavily and warm across his chest.

John turned on his side and took a moment to appreciate Sherlock sleeping. A rare sight - and without the danger of his piercing eyes scrutinizing him he boldly let his gaze wander over the smooth expanse of ivory skin. Sherlock had discarded his t-shirt at some point during the night and his torso was naked and so tantalizingly near that it was hard for John to refrain from caressing his skin.

But he didn't as he felt the invisible barrier still hovering between them. John felt dizzy, almost schizophrenic and utterly, utterly helpless in his elated joy combined with a destructive anger which was still seething inside him. A deceivingly tiny spark buried within the cooling mass of grey ash, ready to ignite the fire again should it be disturbed.

It was eating him from the inside, this ambivalence, but he saw quite clearly that he would have to plough through it, would probably fare best to go by instinct. If that meant not touching him when he felt it was too much, right - he could endure that – another option that flickered across his mind - giving him the cold shoulder, not talking to him - wasn't even realistic in the slightest. Oh, this was something Sherlock could and would do, but it was beyond John. Sherlock had the ability to draw everything out of him, to provoke him into talking, John just couldn't hold back then, couldn't resist giving him a piece of his mind. He would just ... wait and see ... really ...

So instead of letting his fingertips glide over smooth skin as he would have done before ... _the fall_ ... he concentrated on the visual joy he got from having him so near again.

John had no trouble recognizing the few old and familiar blemishes on the otherwise almost perfect skin, the faint silvery scars in the crooks of his arms which spoke of his drug abuse and another scar on his right biceps that originated from a knife a drugs dealer had used on him a few years ago during a case.

John's eyes slid lazily over his body when Sherlock's arm slipped limply to the side, the unconscious movement revealing a large scar across his right side. John involuntarily flinched when he took in the expanse of this scar which curved from underneath his right arm right down towards his belly and it looked fairly fresh, maybe some months old, the skin being still pink and tender.

The shock of seeing such evidence of violence on his body let John cast aside all prudence, and he touched him, tracing a finger over the soft flesh, leaving goose bumps in its wake. John frowned and marvelled what horrendous experience might have left this mark - _What happened to you? What did you have to go through?_ - Sherlock stirred in his sleep then, wiggling in response to this tickling touch and protectively moved his arm back over the scar. John snatched his finger away and decided to leave him be and let him sleep.

He rolled onto his back and then proceeded to get up with a barely stifled grunt, his left shoulder giving him trouble again, the muscles tensely knotted in response to the emotional strain of the past days.

John pulled on a tatty t-shirt and quietly left the bedroom. Despite the ache in his shoulder he was fairly refreshed, had slept deeply and dreamless, surprisingly unmolested by nightmares. After the events of the past day he would have expected to relive awful memories or to go back to Sherlock's fall in his sleep, but nothing had troubled him.

Yawning he glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall when he passed it on his way into the living room. He wanted to phone the surgery, it was nearly half past seven, and Jennifer would be manning the desk already as she was always the first to come in to use the quiet hours to catch up on the paper work.

John would be calling in sick for the next two or three days, he didn't mind the lie, didn't mind the consequences either - he needed to take a few days off, they needed the time together.

x

Sherlock woke when he heard John shuffle out of the room, of course he wasn't meant to, but his sense of hearing was extremely acute and John's quiet slinking had been enough to disturb him. He quickly sat up in their bed and ruffled his hands through his hair, thankfully it was beginning to grow back, a few months ago he had been forced to shave it off almost completely. He needed to do something about the colour, too – he didn't like the hue he had used three weeks ago in Paris. He was desperate to be himself again, and that included all aspects of his personality.

Sherlock glanced down at his naked chest and knew he had to dress before he could go after John, he just couldn't let him see ... this ... he slipped to the edge of the bed and scanned the floor for his t-shirt, finding it next to the chair he had carried in from the kitchen. He stretched his arms, snatched it up and pulled it over his head in one swift and fluid motion.

He got up and opened the door which John had closed only moments ago. John could be heard quietly talking to someone on the phone. Softly he padded towards the source of those murmured words and the nearer he came to the living room the more distinct the quietly spoken words became, '… Yes, I am sure I will be better on Monday. Thank you ….' John seemed to be listening for a moment and then he chuckled, '… Sure, yes, of course. Ta, Jennifer.'

John put the phone down on the desk. If he sensed Sherlock's presence he didn't acknowledge it, but remained where he was and didn't turn around.

'Why did you phone in sick? Is something wrong with you, John?'

John sighed, but still didn't turn around and spoke to the window, 'What do you think, Sherlock? What the hell could possibly be wrong with me?'

He paused a second, feeling the rekindling spark of fury within him, 'I am overwhelmed, I am stupefied, I am quite frankly incapable of grasping the enormity of what you have done … Seriously, Sherlock! _Seriously_? … What is _wrong_ with me?' He scoffed and heaved his shoulders as if in silent and bitter laughter.

'I'm sorry, John. I seem to forget … ' Sherlock cleared his throat, always an indicator that he was out of his depths, 'I seem to forget how shocking it must have been to see me again.'

He closed the gap between them and stood right behind John. He took a moment to study the unwelcoming outline of his back, the stubborn set of his shoulders, 'Would you come with me, John?' he asked out of the blue.

'Where to, Sherlock?' John sounded weary, he didn't know where this might lead and he was sick and tired of an unexpected turn of events for the time being.

'Out ... London ...' Sherlock waved his right hand indicating the city which surrounded them, 'I want to get reacquainted, I want to walk around, I want to see and I want to be seen. I want to feel like any ordinary free man and I want to do this with you.' Sherlock gently placed his hands on John's shoulders, 'I can get used to the city again and we can talk, I can explain ...' he swallowed the rest of the sentence, no need to spell it out.

'London?' John repeated the word as if he needed to chew it a while to understand what Sherlock meant. 'London? ... Oh, what the hell ...' John's shoulders which had been tensing under Sherlock's touch, relaxed a bit, 'All right, Sherlock. London ... I'll come with you.'

x

Maximum exposure to London city life was what Sherlock had in mind and so they took the tube to Blackfriars Station and made their way over the bridge in the rough direction of Ludgate House. The sight of the river though, its glittering surface, proved a stronger attraction and having crossed to the other side they turned left and walked along the riverbank joining an army of leisurely strolling tourists.

In front of the looming edifice of the Tate Modern Sherlock finally broke the lingering silence and told John why he had decided to face Moriarty alone, the ominous sentence _alone is what I have, alone protects me_ ringing shrilly in their ears and John's face became stony and hurt. He turned away from Sherlock and there was no room for a touch or an intimate gesture as they walked next, but not close to each other, making painstakingly sure not to invade each other's personal space. Icy coldness seemed to take residence between them.

Continuing along the Thames John couldn't keep all those bloody feelings and all the resentment inside any longer and he tried to open Sherlock's eyes and make him see the anguish his egotism and self-centredness had caused him. How much he had resented being left out and in the dark. He virtually spat out that it had almost _killed_ him, this feeling of being _unworthy_ to be told. Sherlock moved closer to John, tried to touch him, but he just shrugged him off and started walking two, three, four steps ahead of him.

The Globe saw Sherlock trying to catch up with John and tugging at his sleeve, trying to establish contact, trying to come nearer, but John couldn't allow that and still shrugged him off. When he finally stopped and turned around, he was furious and shook his finger into Sherlock's face, his own features contorted by a flaring anger, shouting abuse at him, letting out now what needed to come out before he stormed off and continued along the river.

Sherlock followed, ignoring the looks of bemused passers-by, biting his lip and thrusting his chin forward. He was humbled and awed by John's fury, but he was not to be deterred and now it was his turn and he talked incessantly to John's unyielding back hovering in constant motion three feet ahead of him.

He told him about Moriarty's game and the looming threat of the _final problem,_ and John's step faltered, he told him about _Moriarty's little incentive_ and the snipers reserved for John, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade, and John stopped, he told him about Moriarty's ultimatum '_Your only three friends will die if you don't_', and John turned around.

Sherlock didn't omit anything, didn't embellish or exaggerate and when he told him about Moriarty's suicide which had robbed him of all hope and had plunged him into desperation, John made a step towards him and touched him. More, he wrapped his arms around him, whispered in his ear that he had not known, would never have believed, that he saw now, that he was sorry for him.

The Tower Bridge had the opportunity to follow the steps of a very silent and introspective Sherlock and a deeply thoughtful John walking from one bank of the Thames to the other.

The Tower finally saw them huddling very close and although these ancient walls have been witness to many horrendous deeds it was certainly for the best that Sherlock whispered into John's ear what it had needed to take down Moriarty's criminal web. How he had deceived and wormed his way into it, how he had cut thread by thread by thread until the web had collapsed.

The Tower Ravens were milling around their feet only to eventually lift from the ground and circle above the ancient castle, crowing hoarsely, taking away with them the frightening tales of bribes, of beatings, of injuries and of death.

The ferry across the Thames which would carry them safely to the Embankment Pier heard John pour his heart out, all his doubts, the anguish, the grief and the pain were tumbling piece for piece for piece out of his mouth, touching Sherlock's ear and heart before everything was gently lifted by a breeze and blown away with the wind, leaving them lighter and less burdened.

Westminster Bridge saw the two of them lock eyes and search answers how to move on from here. It saw what it had doubtless seen countless times before, two lovers finding a way to each other again, two hearts trying to find a common ground, two men who knew each other inside out and who knew that they didn't want to be without the other. But it also saw the scars they bore, the suspicion they still harboured, the restraint in their movements.

In Westminster Abbey the urge to talk had left them and had been replaced by exhaustion and the eternal and universal hope that time would indeed heal all wounds and would bring them back together. They had slipped inside the awe-inspiring church and had sat down in one of the pews, out of sight for most of the other countless visitors.

It felt natural again to sit close to each other and John immediately took Sherlock's hand, unwilling to break the newly established, but still fragile bond. Sherlock glanced at him and smiled, he let his head slowly sink on John's shoulder. John was touched by this uncharacteristically submissive gesture and kissed the top of Sherlock's head. He enjoyed his closeness, relished his warmth and gladly wrapped his arms around Sherlock to hold him close.

They sat on the wooden pew for maybe ten minutes, maybe twenty minutes, maybe even an hour. Time didn't matter anymore, time was irrelevant – Time was of no consequence after nineteen long and agonising months of separation.

x

After a very late lunch in a small Indian restaurant they strolled back home to Baker Street through a sunny summer afternoon. Sherlock was smoking his fourth cigarette since they had left the restaurant and each and every one had been accompanied by John's disapproving frown. To be honest this one, the fourth one, even received a cutting remark, 'Let's get you a family pack of nicotine patches on the way home. This definitely has to stop.'

Sherlock only smirked when this fourth cigarette finally elicited the expected response from John. He deliberately faced John to make him a witness, took one last deep drag with a distinct air of finality and then resolutely stubbed the cigarette out with the heel of his black shoe, 'Whatever you say, John.'

They continued walking and with a bit of a delay John reacted to Sherlock's taunt, 'Sarcasm, Sherlock?' and raised an amused eyebrow.

'Sarcasm, love,' Sherlock used this term of endearment tentatively and for the very first time since his return, but he had done so on purpose. He narrowed his eyes and watched John closely, gauging his reaction.

Of course John had noticed and he was well aware that it was deliberate and not simply a slip of the tongue, never a slip of the tongue with Sherlock. He stopped in his tracks and turned to face him.

'You can't possibly know how much I missed this ... this word. How I missed someone in my life saying it to me. How I missed you.' John spoke slowly, deliberately, 'Sherlock, I'm so glad that you are back, here with me. It's bloody difficult and annoying and frightening and ... _Jesus_ ... I feel like punching you ... hard ... repeatedly ... but we will find a way ... we _will_ ... yes,' he nodded to underline the strength of his words, a stubborn set to his mouth.

Sherlock thrust his chin forward in his usual manner and after a short glance to the side he stepped closer to John, 'You're right – We will find ways ...'

He leaned his forehead against John's and added in a whisper, 'You know, there's no need to hold back when you feel like punching me, just be civil and give me a warning, will you?'

John's face split into a wide grin, 'Right. Okay.'

Sherlock mirrored his smile and softly kissed his lips, 'But not now ... It's time to go home now, love.'

'Sure ... yes,' John kissed back those soft lips and couldn't resist a quick swipe of the tongue over his very lickable Cupid's bow. Sherlock's mouth widened into a grin in response to that intimate gesture.

'Let's not forget your nicotine patches!' John quickly added, barely able to hide his amusement.

'Yes, let's not ... and while we're at it let's get some hair dye, I need to get rid of this colour...'

'Um – Why don't you keep it a while ... um ... I quite like it actually ...' John admitted and Sherlock arched a sarcastic eyebrow.

'Do you? Why?'

'It's like having a new boyfriend, an exciting, young and brand new boyfriend – the last one was a bit of a rogue, you know.'

'A _rogue_?' Sherlock sputtered indignantly, 'How can you even ...?'

'Oh, shut up, love! We were on our way home, remember?'

And when to a noninvolved passer-by the look on John's face when he grasped Sherlock's hand might seem a happy, a satisfied, a confident one and the emotions flickering over Sherlock's features might be a display of relief and ease and calmness, this might just be a trick, a magic trick this glorious summer light might be playing on the onlooker ... But then again ... it might not.

* * *

**A/N** Well, they are on a definite way back to happiness … One more chapter to come, my dears …

Thank you for all your lovely feedback … It really makes my day! JJ


	5. Afterthoughts

**Afterthoughts …**

_One year later_

'I think we really have to get moving, love,' John muttered drowsily. When he got no response from the man who would never miss a reply, let alone a punch line, he opened his eyes and glanced down at Sherlock who unexpectedly seemed to be still sleeping. John smiled and leaned out of the lovely wide bed to grab his watch from the nightstand.

He squinted - _oh for God's sakes_ - and held it a bit further away the better to read the time. It bothered him greatly that he seemed to be having problems with his eyesight lately. _You're getting old_ - Sherlock had teased him when he had noticed and by God it was true.

The tell-tale signs of middle age had been assaulting him since he had reached forty. Well, on a good day, he could forget about the grey hair and maybe even live with his gradually failing eyesight, but what really bothered him was that he had developed a bit of a bulge where six months or a year ago there had only been lean flesh and muscles adorning his midriff. Not that Sherlock had complained in so many words, but it tainted John's self-perception. He still saw himself as a soldier, a fit, a trained, a tough man.

_Just wait and see - _had been John's miffed and ungraceful answer to Sherlock's observation and Sherlock had only chuckled. Well, he could, couldn't he? He was still lean as a whippet, not one grey hair to be found in those luscious black curls and his eyesight the curse of every enterprising ophthalmologist.

John squinted again, those watch hands were really extraordinarily tiny, not that he would openly admit to Sherlock that he couldn't read it properly - he would never hear the end of it. He held the watch just that teensy bit further away ... and ... ah ... right, 'It's half past nine already, love. We really need to get up.' He gently nudged Sherlock's arm and caressed the soft skin on his biceps to rouse him.

Sherlock, whose head was resting comfortably on John's belly and who by all appearances seemed utterly relaxed, still sleeping even - judging by the closed eyes and the deep and even breathing - lazily said, 'John, you should really get glasses if you can't read the watch anymore. Don't be silly.'

'How on earth ...? Oh, never mind. I thought you were sleeping and not spying out my weaknesses.'

'It's not a weakness, John. It's perfectly normal. You see, it's statistically much more likely to have failing eyesight at the age of forty than to be balding or to lose your sense of hearing. So, stop denying and get those glasses.'

John scoffed, he wouldn't give in to it - no, he wouldn't. As if reading his thoughts Sherlock added in his usual candid manner, 'Don't be such a vain idiot!'

He stretched his arms languidly like a cat and turned around to place his chin on John's chest, near enough so that John had to squint a bit to see him clearly, which of course was proving Sherlock's point beautifully, 'I think you would look lovely with glasses,' he arched an eyebrow, 'Very distinguished.'

'Sherlock, how come that I seem to be stuck with all the bad side-effects of aging whereas you are still a blooming flower of youth?' John sounded really peeved and Sherlock's lips curled into a smile.

'Genes, John. Look at my mother, she's still quite youthful, so I guess I must have got it from her. Well, Mycroft is another matter entirely of course, he seems to differ from the rest ...'

Sherlock smirked and kissed John's chest to placate him, but this gesture only earned him a rather bad-tempered grunt. Sherlock frowned, that wouldn't do, oh no. He licked with his tongue over the lightly tanned skin of his chest like a cat lapping up cream, and planted small, sweet kisses between the downy hairs. John wiggled a bit as if he had been tickled, but no other discernible reaction was to be had, which was entirely unacceptable for Sherlock. He moved on to circle his tongue lazily around one nipple, causing John to moan softly. Sherlock registered this moan with pleasure and proceeded to gently suck the pink flesh into a rigid nub, his eyes never once leaving John's face.

'Sherl ...' John tried to say, 'Sherl ... we really need to get ready. They are all ...' a gasp and his eyelids fluttered closed because Sherlock had moved on to the other nipple, 'all waiting for ...' a low moan as Sherlock's tongue snaked along his chest and slowly down to his belly. Another low gasp escaped John's mouth when Sherlock's tongue wickedly circled his navel and then dipped into it, '... for us.'

Sherlock just grinned and moved downwards undeterred, kissing, licking, biting, sucking and was rewarded with some lovely throaty moans which only served to spur him on. 'Sherl ...' John tried again, grabbing a handful of Sherlock's curls to pull him back up to him, but Sherlock's next moves made him abandon all restraint, 'Oh what the ... Let them wait.'

x

'Bloody hell, what is the effing matter with those ties ... I know why I avoid them like the plague, those bloody buggers ...' John cursed softly.

Standing in front of the mirror he had been fiddling with the grey silk tie for what seemed an eternity. Sherlock finally took mercy and waved John's clumsy hands away. He stepped behind him, reached over his shoulders and knotted a perfect double Windsor in about ten seconds. He arched an eyebrow at John's exasperated reflection and turned away to put the finishing touches to his own outfit.

John watched Sherlock through the mirror, his serene face, his graceful movements, the lovely black curls framing his face - yes, he was still beautiful, as beautiful as he had been fifteen years ago when they had first met. Of course, there were some laughter lines around his bright blue eyes and around his mouth and his body bore the scars of various fights against his various demons - but my God he still had this air of a dark angel surrounding him. John became quite still, his hands suspended in midair while he watched him, love, pride and longing for this impossible and fascinating man filling his heart.

'I love you, too,' Sherlock murmured without looking up from buttoning his waistcoat and John snapped out of his reverie and smiled at him.

He blinked and tried to concentrate on the task at hand again. He grabbed his suit jacket from the back of the chair, but before he put it on he patted his left breast pocket to check whether the small velvet jeweller's box was still there. John slipped into the jacket, it felt lovely and it was a perfect fit, tailor-made, and with one last finishing touch he adjusted the length of his cuffs, and turned around.

Sherlock had finished dressing and looked at him expectantly. 'You look fantastic, love,' John obliged and kissed him.

'You look not so bad yourself, John. In fact, you look very young and dashing, no trace of middle age …' he said mockingly, but when he saw a slight frown knitting John's brow, he quickly added, 'You look truly wonderful, love. I'm proud of you.'

And it was true, they both looked very dapper in their dark suits with matching waistcoats and silk grey ties. John hadn't been sure about the almost identical twin outfits, but Sherlock had persuaded him and he had to admit that they looked great standing next to each other. Sherlock's suit was a bit darker than John's and the tie a tone or two lighter, but that was all the difference.

They stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the ties, their shoulders brushing when Sherlock suddenly said, 'You know John, all I ever wished for was to grow old with you.'

'I know, my love,' John softly replied and smiled.

They turned to face each other and just enjoyed the relaxing closeness of the other man. Sherlock eventually leaned down and kissed John, tender, loving kisses, fuelled by a deep understanding and love. A love that had once been born out of the sheer fascination for each other, and was now made out of small parts of fighting and anger, of past separation and reunion, but largely of trust, of appreciation and admiration, of desire and intimacy.

Their love had gone through many stages in the last fifteen years and now they had reached a point where they were completely at ease with each other and their love was as profound as it could ever be.

'I hate to be a spoilsport, but we really need to be going now,' John murmured against Sherlock's lips, 'They will all be waiting for us.'

'Relax, they can't very well start without us, can they?' Sherlock whispered back and doubled his efforts to distract John and to prolong their precious time alone in that plush hotel room.

x

'You drive,' John opened the car with a sharp electronic bleep, threw the car keys over the bonnet and climbed into the passenger seat.

He wouldn't admit it, but he felt a bit apprehensive, and would rather not endanger anybody on the way to the church because he was inattentive. And they really had to get a move on now, if they were lucky, they would just make it - if Sherlock, who was a very good driver, would put a foot down that was.

They drove through the quiet streets of the town as quickly as legally possible and once outside the town's limits Sherlock tried his utmost to make up for the lost time, fairly racing through the narrow country lanes towards the small parish church where everybody was eagerly waiting for them.

They found a parking spot not too far away from the idyllic church and raced towards the entrance. A slightly irritated voice greeted them through the open door of the vestibule, 'There you are! Hurry, hurry! Everybody's waiting!'

Sherlock grabbed John's sleeves and held him back for a second, 'I'm glad we're here.'

'Me too,' John grinned and together they stepped into the cool vestibule of the church.

Steven, who had called out to them had been nervously pacing the length of the anteroom for the last twenty minutes. But now a broad smile lit up his face when he saw them arriving and when he spoke again he addressed his six months old son who was peacefully sleeping in his arms.

'Look Finlay, here they _finally_ come, your two godfathers. Late, they are. Not good, really not good. But with these two you better get used to it, you really do. Might save you from disappointment.'

'Sorry, Steven. We ... um ... the car broke down and we had to wait for ... um ...' John was embarrassed, he hated to be late, hated to disappoint people, hated to lie.

'The breakdown service,' Sherlock piped up, 'They arrived fairly quickly, but ... you know what it's like!' Sherlock had spoken with his usual confidence and now he smiled, all charm and honesty, and Steven couldn't help but answer his smile and thereby condone the blatant lie.

'What happened to the modern blessing of the mobile phone then?' he nevertheless asked sarcastically.

'Ah – well – no connection,' John quickly answered, glancing at Sherlock who nodded, his face a study of seriousness.

'But you managed to call the breakdown service, lucky you ...' Steven grinned, 'Well, never mind that now ... I'm glad you're here at last, but we need to hurry, they are all waiting inside for us and the priest has a wedding in an hour. Sherlock, would you take Finlay?'

Sherlock looked a bit taken aback by this demand, insecurity playing across his usually so confident features. His eyes darted to John, looking for reassurance, and John nodded almost imperceptibly. Steven carefully placed his son in his godfather's arms and once Sherlock had overcome his initial reserve, he relaxed and peered down at the small, sleeping face.

'He's gorgeous,' John murmured, but Sherlock could only nod as if uttering even a single word in his low baritone would wake the little boy immediately.

'John, have you got the necklace with the little cross?' Steven asked and opened the door to the church.

John patted his breast pocket and nodded, 'It's all here.'

He positioned himself next to Sherlock and together they followed Steven inside the church where little Finlay Sherlock John Hummings would be christened today.

x

'Gives you ideas, doesn't it?' Sherlock mumbled when they were driving back to the hotel from the country inn where Steven, Emily, Sean and Sophie and the rest of their sprawling family and friends had celebrated little Finlay's christening noisily and happily.

John thought he'd misheard, there was an infinite variety of _ideas_ that this day might have given Sherlock, but they were only a few that danced around in John's head.

'What kind of ideas?' John asked, turning to Sherlock and studying his half-profile.

'Well, you know – evanescence, youth, age, family ... children,' the last was said with a shy glance at John. John's lips curled into a smile – so they had had the same thoughts dancing around in their heads for once and it had been Sherlock to voice them – interesting.

John cleared his throat, 'Children,' he repeated, 'Yes ... You know, Sherlock, sometimes I do think about what it would be like to have a family, to be a father. It's a pleasant image and for a few moments I even mourn this lost possibility, but it never lasts,' he glanced at Sherlock who was ostensibly concentrating on the narrow country road, but John knew that he was listening intently. 'It's not something that bothers me greatly and to be honest having children isn't something that will ever happen for us ...'

'Why not?'

'I don't see how we could? Unless we adopt or find a surrogate mother ... But _Jesus_, why are we even talking about that?'

'It's just something that became very obvious today ...' Sherlock said, but then he didn't go on.

'What became very obvious?'

'That you love children and that you probably regret not having your own.'

John smiled, of course he had noticed, how could the most perceptive man of all times not have?

'It's true, I like children, like having them around and I like to play with them. But so do most people and there are thousands of people out there who yearn for children and who will never have the opportunity to have one of their own.' He placed his hand on Sherlock's thigh for a moment, 'I honestly don't regret not having children, I really don't. We have our little godson, that's a gift ... and believe me, you should never underestimate the blessed possibility to hand Finlay back to his parents at the end of a long day characterised by screaming fits.'

Sherlock snorted, 'You're probably right,' he paused a few moments, concentrating on an oncoming car. 'It's not that I want to have children, it never even occurred to me. They wouldn't fit our lifestyle, would they? I mean, a crime scene is not exactly a nursery,' he glanced at John, 'And I wouldn't be a good father, I'm too impatient and I would not know what to do with them. They're so boring as long as they are not able to speak, read and write properly. Seriously, John ... can you tell me, what to do with a _toddler_?'

Now it was John's turn to snort and to stare at him in something akin to disbelief and amazement. They drove on in silence for a while after that, and John was already beginning to wonder why Sherlock had brought this topic up at all, when he started to speak again.

'There is something else that became clear to me today, love.' Sherlock shortly glanced at him, then back to the road and brought the car to a halt at the edge of the country road that would finally take them back to their hotel. He stopped the motor and turned in his seat to face John.

'Today it became clear to me that it's time to change something in our life, that something is missing,' Sherlock spoke softly and his face bore such a serious expression that John's chest started to flutter with anxiety because he was unable to see where this was heading and it frightened him.

'No! – No, John. Don't be afraid – there's no need to. I want to ask you something, love.'

Sherlock reached out and gently enveloped John's hand in his own and this gesture turned the fear in John's chest into something else entirely, making him glow from within all of sudden. Sherlock noticed the change and his heart skipped a beat. He quickly dropped his gaze to their joined hands before his eyes darted back to John's face taking in all the familiar lines and tiny freckles, the apprehension in those dark blue and kind eyes, and then he plunged right in.

'John, will you marry me?'

A simple question, asked without fussing or beating around the bush and it deserved only the one, simple and happy answer.

'Yes, I will!'

* * *

**A/N** There you go … I really couldn't end it any happier than that … So **Beginnings** and **A New Lease of Life** have finally found a happy conclusion.

Thank you all so much for your continuing support, especially **Tohru-excel**, **Thebookworm214**, **CalmintheChaos**, **yourlovelylandlady**, **powerOgirl**, **simonsaysyes** and all the others who sent messages, reviewed repeatedly, favourited or alerted! You really make my day!

See you, my dears! JJ


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